


122 years, still counting

by johnwtfson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Multiverse, Season 4 Spoilers, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9341168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwtfson/pseuds/johnwtfson
Summary: Your name is Sherlock Holmes. You live in 221b, Bakers Street, London, England. It is 1895. You are a detective. You are in love with Dr. John H. Watson. You always have been. You always will be.But you're not allowed to. To most, you exist only as a character in one of the good doctor's stories; you are expected to mimic this character. Cold. Stoic. Unfeeling, emotionless. It is a façade that weighs down on your tense shoulders, and one you cannot go without. You are in love with Dr. John Watson, but you're not allowed to.You can only cling to the hope that one day, you will be. And that one day, he will be allowed to love you back.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i had initially written a very different ending to this, but i thought mofftiss wrote a very different ending to the show too. 
> 
> i'm so sorry, guys. it really shouldn't have been like this.

You make a living off of knowing. Of seeing, and then observing. You have been praised time and time again for your meticulous ability to rattle off facts as if they were mere lines of poetry, read aloud by street dwellers and dreamers. However, despite all your knowing, you don't know if there is a better life for you than the one that you currently live. You call yourself a man out of his time, but you don't know for certain. What you do know about yourself is intimidating, to say the very least.

Your name is Sherlock Holmes. You live in 221b, Bakers Street, London, England. It is 1895. You are a detective. You are in love with Dr. John H. Watson. You always have been. You always will be.

But you're not allowed to. To most, you exist only as a character in one of the good doctor's stories; you are expected to mimic this character. Cold. Stoic. Unfeeling, emotionless. It is a façade that weighs down on your tense shoulders, and one you cannot go without. You are in love with Dr. John Watson, but you're not allowed to.

You can only cling to the hope that one day, you will be. And that one day, he will be allowed to love you back.

\---

You meet in 1881. Mike Stamford introduces you to the recently returned army doctor; your light, your life, Dr. John H. Watson. He comes to you looking so seemingly ordinary, even equipped with a name that bears no trace of excitement. John. It is a common name, for a common man. You expect nothing to come from your flat share with him.

You're wrong. It's a rare circumstance where you don't mind. He proves to be anything but common. He proves that appearances are misleading. You fall without a hope for return; ironic, that you will eventually evade death, but you cannot evade this. This crucial moment, of acceptance and wonder at your talents, is your making. You are a monster, and this, your Frankenstein.

When he is outraged at the world's complacency with your talents, he takes it upon himself to spread news of what, in his eyes, is nothing short of magical. You are, to him, magical. But it is 1881. He is not allowed to see you as magical.

Watson, full of surprises, writes you down. He immortalises the both of you in text. It fills you with love. It also fills you with dread. Watson tells the world of your talent, but also of your character. Writing is permanency; you are to be preserved as cold. Stoic. Unfeeling and emotionless.

It is something you will have to learn to live with. It is something you can't change.

\---

There are many moments Watson doesn't include in his stories. Even after Mary Morstan comes along and acts as the parenthesis in your love letter of a life, you still have glimpses at what can never be.

"Another fine case, Holmes. I'm sure my readers will find it most intriguing," he remarks one night, after one of your many cases was solved. You forget which; they all blur into one, with one constant throughout them all; your faithful Boswell, Watson himself.

"And a pleasure to read, I assume, given your knack for romanticising my every thought and action," you comment, raising an eyebrow. It's hard to tell, given you both stand in 221b, illuminated only by the fireplace, but you could swear he flushes pink.

"Well, Holmes," he stumbles. "Or rather, Sherlock..."

The use of your first name catches you off guard. It is a display of intimacy, one that you neither expected, nor mind.

"I am, as I am certain it has not escaped your skilful eye, a romantic. I cannot help it. However, I am willing to try and contain it, if it bothers you."

He watches you closely. "Does it bother you, my friend?"

You allow yourself a moment of weakness. The façade breaks, for a moment. You take his hands in yours, and search his eyes.

"No, my dear Wats-"

Your breath catches in your throat. The traditional address for your friend suddenly seems wrong, and you cough.

"John. Truthfully, it does not bother me one bit."

\---

You die in 1891. It is you, Moriarty, and a waterfall, and in the end, you die as the fictional you is expected to die; alone, with an enemy, in a cold and dark place.

You are brought back to life in 1894. Three whole years without John Watson. The reunion is, in the end, what you need it to be.

However, it is not what you want it to be.

\---

If you are to pinpoint the moment when John understands his mistake in making you a cold and emotionless character, it would be a moment in 1902. You're both getting older, but you're still together, in every sense of the word but one.

He is injured with a bullet; a superficial wound, when contrasted with other sufferings you have both witnessed. However, a superficial wound on your extraordinary companion is more than enough to cause panic.

"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake say that you're not hurt!"

And while John is in pain, it is nothing compared to the lifetime of pain you have both experienced. To hide one's self, you muse, is the cruelest form of torture.

There is a heart beneath your character, just as there is love in this partnership. But the world can't know. The true story can't be told yet.

You know it all too well, and as you meet John's eyes and he processes your words, you can see that he knows it, too.

\---

"Someday the true story may be told."

You never lose hope. As time goes on, you change in so many ways, and you never change enough. But you never lose hope.

\---

In 2010, you return. You are different; you're always different in the future. You use phones and computers, and wear a scarf. Times have changed; you haven't. You meet the way you always meet; through Mike Stamford, nervously and happily waiting for the rest of your lives to begin together. It's always the same story, over and over.

But this one is different. This one feels... Different.

You should see it coming. Harry Watson, divorcing a Clara and lending his phone to the good doctor, is a woman. His sister. You get it wrong, and once again, it is a rare circumstance you don't mind.

People like that are allowed to get married in this story. People like that are allowed to be in love. People like that - people like you.

When John Watson saves your life for this first time in this world, you want to try it out. Want to see if you really are allowed to change.

In the end, you don't. If this is really possible, you don't want to rush it. You've been waiting so long, both of you, but you would wait longer, a million years longer, just to make this the best it can be.

"I love you," you want to say.

"Dinner?" you say instead.

\---

He seeks out women not a week after saving you. It's discouraging. It's to be expected.

"She's great," he says, returned from a job interview.

"Who is?" you test.

"The job."

"She?"

"It."

Her name is Sarah. She's not the last - a list of women come in and out of John's life, and you sit and watch because you have to. He once makes a comment on his blog (he blogs in this life. His therapist thinks it's good for him) that relationships aren't compatible with his life with you.

Nevertheless, he doesn't stop it. His life with you, that is.

\---

You meet Irene Adler and suddenly, you start to feel like you're getting somewhere. John is visibly and verbally jealous, as she flirts and flits around you.

"Hamish. John Hamish Watson, in case you were looking for baby names."

And while you muse over the idea of a baby, really, with him, Irene smirks and lets you solve her case.

She's in love with you. Well, sort of. She's, well... She's like you. But she likes you. And she fascinates you, but in the end, with all the text alerts and lies, she's not what you want. She's not even what you need. Not even close.

\---

You die again in 2012, but not really. Nothing really changes; Moriarty dies as well, and you fall, alone and cold and wishing you didn't have to. But this time, you get to say goodbye. John has to watch you leave this world, and you have to watch him love you for what you hope will not be the last time as he leaves your grave. Two years; it should be a piece of cake. You've waited so long already - what's two more years?

\---

It's everything. It's the difference between watching him love you and watching him leave you. He's been with Mary Morstan in the past, and you've watched him love her and live with her before, but this is different. This hurts, because you had a chance and you lost it.

"I can't do it, John."

He thinks you're talking about the bomb.

You're not talking about the bomb.

\---

They get married. He tells you he loves you. He tells you he also loves her.

A gentle touch of the knee. A hug during your speech. A look at the end of the night. It's not what you want. It's not even what you need. Not even close.

You leave early. You should have seen it coming. Your life, love letter though it may be, is nothing more than a foreshadowed tragedy. You don't get to be happy. You don't get to change.

You leave early, and let John Watson be happy. It is all you are capable of doing.

\---

"Did you just get engaged to break into an office?"

It doesn't work; he's not happy anyway.

\---

"Is John with you? Is John here?"

There is a gunshot, and you go falling back. You're going to die, differently and definitely. You let yourself go.

\---

"John Watson is definitely in danger..."

And there it is, your reason for living. The light of your life, the only thing that got you through almost 120 years of hiding and suffering and lying. He wrote you down, immortalised you all those years ago, and even in your final hour, you cannot let him down.

He might have published you without a heart, but outside of the stories, he was, and is, the only proof you have one. And, ultimately, he is enough to restart it.

You survive. Love conquers all.

\---

Even in your final hour, you cannot let him down.

"I love you," you want to say.

"Sherlock is actually a girls name," you say instead.

It's almost worth it, just to hear him laugh one more time.

\---

And then you're back, to a time so far away and yet so familiar. It is 1895. You are a detective. You are in love with Dr. John H. Watson. You always have been. You always will be.

It's like déjà vu. But you're only here because you're high. It's all in your head. A story within a story based off of another story.

You see it all play out once again, every minute; you watch a conspiracy group win, watch as you prepare to die with Moriarty at the waterfall once again. Only this time, John is here. John is here and you understand; you can't change anything without him. The only way to change the story is to do it together. The heart of the conspiracy; this was the plan all along.

"There's always two of us."

And there always will be.

\---

Mary, assassin though she was, has her baby. Rosamund Mary Watson is born and John loves her, so naturally you love her too. Your chance is coming, nearing closer and closer.

It's still not close enough.

Mary dies. John blames you. You realise that all those years of hiding and suffering didn't really hurt at all. Not like this does.

  
\---

It's your birthday. John is here, he's here and he's talking to you and it's already looking to be your best birthday, simply because John is here and he saved you and he doesn't hate you anymore.

He moves to leave, to go collect Rosie 20 minutes before Molly is set to replace him, when your phone goes off. It's Irene, you know it is; he knows, too. You never did change her text alert. John turns back and starts talking, saying anything, everything.

He thinks she's in love with you. He thinks you're in love with her. Even now, after all you've been through, he still doubts.

His jealous speech on Irene turns into confession; he cheated on Mary. He wanted more. He still does.

You have the chance to tell him the truth; it's on the tip of your tongue, as he talks and talks and talks. You want to say it's not Irene, it never was. But he needs this, and your chance is coming, so you let him cry into his hands, and press him into your shirt. It's nothing like your last embrace; it's more. It's still not enough, but it will do. For now. Your chance is coming.

When you pull apart, he takes you out for cake. It's the best birthday ever.

\---

The stage is set. Everything is ready. You're waiting, waiting for the right moment to stop hiding, to free both him and you from your otherwise eternal prison.

In a real prison, you realise you cannot. Moments come and pass. You lose hope.

It's not what you want. It's definitely not what you need.

Not

even

close.

\---

You still make a living off of knowing. Of seeing, and then observing. You are still praised time and time again for your meticulous ability to rattle off facts as if they were mere lines of poetry, read aloud by entertainers and romantics. However, you now know there is no better life for you than the one you used to live. You are forever a man out of his time. What you know about yourself will always be slightly intimidating.

Your name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. You live in 221b, Bakers Street, London, England. It's 2017. You are a detective.

You are in love with Dr. John Hamish Watson. You always have been. You always will.

But, you are never allowed to. Moments come and pass, and nothing ever changes. Hope is a dangerous thing and you once thought it could get you somewhere, but apparently, it doesn't matter who you really are. Sure, you will always be with John Watson. But you can never be with him.

Love conquers nothing. It didn't have to be this way, but it's 2017 and nothing has changed. You really thought this time would be it. You were wrong. It is a not so rare circumstance where you truly mind.

Maybe someday, still, the true story may be told.

But it is not today. 


	2. original (canon johnlock) version

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in my original version of this fic, it went like this. happy ending version, it's pretty much exactly the same but the ending is different and i was only going to call it '122 years'. so there you go. also the poem was what i based this whole idea of, but it doesn't really fit with the real ending. hope this one hurts less xxx

_“I think we deserve_  
_a soft epilogue, my love._  
_We are good people_  
_and we’ve suffered enough.”_

_\- Seventy Years of Sleep # 4. nikka ursula_

You make a living off of knowing. Of seeing, and then observing. You have been praised time and time again for your meticulous ability to rattle off facts as if they were mere lines of poetry, read aloud by street dwellers and dreamers. However, despite all your knowing, you don't know if there is a better life for you than the one that you currently live. You call yourself a man out of his time, but you don't know for certain. What you do know about yourself is intimidating, to say the very least.

Your name is Sherlock Holmes. You live in 221b, Bakers Street, London, England. It is 1895. You are a detective. You are in love with Dr. John H. Watson. You always have been. You always will be.

But you're not allowed to. To most, you exist only as a character in one of the good doctor's stories; you are expected to mimic this character. Cold. Stoic. Unfeeling, emotionless. It is a façade that weighs down on your tense shoulders, and one you cannot go without. You are in love with Dr. John Watson, but you're not allowed to.

You can only cling to the hope that one day, you will be. And that one day, he will be allowed to love you back.

\---

You meet in 1881. Mike Stamford introduces you to the recently returned army doctor; your light, your life, Dr. John H. Watson. He comes to you looking so seemingly ordinary, even equipped with a name that bears no trace of excitement. John. It is a common name, for a common man. You expect nothing to come from your flat share with him.

You're wrong. It's a rare circumstance where you don't mind. He proves to be anything but common. He proves that appearances are misleading. You fall without a hope for return; ironic, that you will eventually evade death, but you cannot evade this. This crucial moment, of acceptance and wonder at your talents, is your making. You are a monster, and this, your Frankenstein.

When he is outraged at the world's complacency with your talents, he takes it upon himself to spread news of what, in his eyes, is nothing short of magical. You are, to him, magical. But it is 1881. He is not allowed to see you as magical.

Watson, full of surprises, writes you down. He immortalises the both of you in text. It fills you with love. It also fills you with dread. Watson tells the world of your talent, but also of your character. Writing is permanency; you are to be preserved as cold. Stoic. Unfeeling and emotionless.

It is something you will have to learn to live with. It is something you can't change.

\---

There are many moments Watson doesn't include in his stories. Even after Mary Morstan comes along and acts as the parenthesis in your love letter of a life, you still have glimpses at what can never be.

"Another fine case, Holmes. I'm sure my readers will find it most intriguing," he remarks one night, after one of your many cases was solved. You forget which; they all blur into one, with one constant throughout them all; your faithful Boswell, Watson himself.

"And a pleasure to read, I assume, given your knack for romanticising my every thought and action," you comment, raising an eyebrow. It's hard to tell, given you both stand in 221b, illuminated only by the fireplace, but you could swear he flushes pink.

"Well, Holmes," he stumbles. "Or rather, Sherlock..."

The use of your first name catches you off guard. It is a display of intimacy, one that you neither expected, nor mind.

"I am, as I am certain it has not escaped your skilful eye, a romantic. I cannot help it. However, I am willing to try and contain it, if it bothers you."

He watches you closely. "Does it bother you, my friend?"

You allow yourself a moment of weakness. The façade breaks, for a moment. You take his hands in yours, and search his eyes.

"No, my dear Wats-"

Your breath catches in your throat. The traditional address for your friend suddenly seems wrong, and you cough.

"John. Truthfully, it does not bother me one bit."

\---

You die in 1891. It is you, Moriarty, and a waterfall, and in the end, you die as the fictional you is expected to die; alone, with an enemy, in a cold and dark place.

You are brought back to life in 1894. Three whole years without John Watson. The reunion is, in the end, what you need it to be.

However, it is not what you want it to be.

\---

If you are to pinpoint the moment when John understands his mistake in making you a cold and emotionless character, it would be a moment in 1902. You're both getting older, but you're still together, in every sense of the word but one.

He is injured with a bullet; a superficial wound, when contrasted with other sufferings you have both witnessed. However, a superficial wound on your extraordinary companion is more than enough to cause panic.

"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake say that you're not hurt!"

And while John is in pain, it is nothing compared to the lifetime of pain you have both experienced. To hide one's self, you muse, is the cruelest form of torture.

There is a heart beneath your character, just as there is love in this partnership. But the world can't know. The true story can't be told yet.

You know it all too well, and as you meet John's eyes and he processes your words, you can see that he knows it, too.

\---

"Someday the true story may be told."

You never lose hope. As time goes on, you change in so many ways, and you never change enough. But you never lose hope.

\---

In 2010, you return. You are different; you're always different in the future. You use phones and computers, and wear a scarf. Times have changed; you haven't. You meet the way you always meet; through Mike Stamford, nervously and happily waiting for the rest of your lives to begin together. It's always the same story, over and over.

But this one is different. This one feels... Different.

You should see it coming. Harry Watson, divorcing a Clara and lending his phone to the good doctor, is a woman. His sister. You get it wrong, and once again, it is a rare circumstance you don't mind.

People like that are allowed to get married in this story. People like that are allowed to be in love. People like that - people like you.

When John Watson saves your life for this first time in this world, you want to try it out. Want to see if you really are allowed to change.

In the end, you don't. If this is really possible, you don't want to rush it. You've been waiting so long, both of you, but you would wait longer, a million years longer, just to make this the best it can be.

"I love you," you want to say.

"Dinner?" you say instead.

\---

He seeks out women not a week after saving you. It's discouraging. It's to be expected.

"She's great," he says, returned from a job interview.

"Who is?" you test.

"The job."

"She?"

"It."

Her name is Sarah. She's not the last - a list of women come in and out of John's life, and you sit and watch because you have to. He once makes a comment on his blog (he blogs in this life. His therapist thinks it's good for him) that relationships aren't compatible with his life with you.

Nevertheless, he doesn't stop it. His life with you, that is.

\---

You meet Irene Adler and suddenly, you start to feel like you're getting somewhere. John is visibly and verbally jealous, as she flirts and flits around you.

"Hamish. John Hamish Watson, in case you were looking for baby names."

And while you muse over the idea of a baby, really, with him, Irene smirks and lets you solve her case.

She's in love with you. Well, sort of. She's, well... She's like you. But she likes you. And she fascinates you, but in the end, with all the text alerts and lies, she's not what you want. She's not even what you need. Not even close.

\---

You die again in 2012, but not really. Nothing really changes; Moriarty dies as well, and you fall, alone and cold and wishing you didn't have to. But this time, you get to say goodbye. John has to watch you leave this world, and you have to watch him love you for what you hope will not be the last time as he leaves your grave. Two years; it should be a piece of cake. You've waited so long already - what's two more years?

\---

It's everything. It's the difference between watching him love you and watching him leave you. He's been with Mary Morstan in the past, and you've watched him love her and live with her before, but this is different. This hurts, because you had a chance and you lost it.

"I can't do it, John."

He thinks you're talking about the bomb.

You're not talking about the bomb.

\---

They get married. He tells you he loves you. He tells you he also loves her.

A gentle touch of the knee. A hug during your speech. A look at the end of the night. It's not what you want. It's not even what you need. Not even close.

You leave early. You should have seen it coming. Your life, love letter though it may be, is nothing more than a foreshadowed tragedy. You don't get to be happy. You don't get to change.

You leave early, and let John Watson be happy. It is all you are capable of doing.

\---

"Did you just get engaged to break into an office?"

It doesn't work; he's not happy anyway.

\---

"Is John with you? Is John here?"

There is a gunshot, and you go falling back. You're going to die, differently and definitely. You let yourself go.

\---

"John Watson is definitely in danger..."

And there it is, your reason for living. The light of your life, the only thing that got you through almost 120 years of hiding and suffering and lying. He wrote you down, immortalised you all those years ago, and even in your final hour, you cannot let him down.

He might have published you without a heart, but outside of the stories, he was, and is, the only proof you have one. And, ultimately, he is enough to restart it.

You survive. Love conquers all.

\---

Even in your final hour, you cannot let him down.

"I love you," you want to say.

"Sherlock is actually a girls name," you say instead.

It's almost worth it, just to hear him laugh one more time.

\---

And then you're back, to a time so far away and yet so familiar. It is 1895. You are a detective. You are in love with Dr. John H. Watson. You always have been. You always will be.

It's like déjà vu. But you're only here because you're high. It's all in your head. A story within a story based off of another story.

You see it all play out once again, every minute; you watch a conspiracy group win, watch as you prepare to die with Moriarty at the waterfall once again. Only this time, John is here. John is here and you understand; you can't change anything without him. The only way to change the story is to do it together. The heart of the conspiracy; this was the plan all along.

"There's always two of us."

And there always will be.

\---

Mary, assassin though she was, has her baby. Rosamund Mary Watson is born and John loves her, so naturally you love her too. Your chance is coming, nearing closer and closer.

It's still not close enough.

Mary dies. John blames you. You realise that all those years of hiding and suffering didn't really hurt at all. Not like this does.

  
\---

It's your birthday. John is here, he's here and he's talking to you and it's already looking to be your best birthday, simply because John is here and he saved you and he doesn't hate you anymore.

He moves to leave, to go collect Rosie 20 minutes before Molly is set to replace him, when your phone goes off. It's Irene, you know it is; he knows, too. You never did change her text alert. John turns back and starts talking, saying anything, everything.

He thinks she's in love with you. He thinks you're in love with her. Even now, after all you've been through, he still doubts.

His jealous speech on Irene turns into confession; he cheated on Mary. He wanted more. He still does.

You have the chance to tell him the truth; it's on the tip of your tongue, as he talks and talks and talks. You want to say it's not Irene, it never was. But he needs this, and your chance is coming, so you let him cry into his hands, and press him into your shirt. It's nothing like your last embrace; it's more. It's still not enough, but it will do. For now. Your chance is coming.

When you pull apart, he takes you out for cake. It's the best birthday ever.

\---

And then finally, your moment comes.

"I love you," you want to say.

So you say it.

\---

And he says it back.

\---

You still make a living off of knowing. Of seeing, and then observing. You are still praised time and time again for your meticulous ability to rattle off facts as if they were mere lines of poetry, read aloud by entertainers and romantics. However, you now know there was a better life for you than the one you used to live. You are no longer a man out of his time. What you know about yourself is no longer intimidating.

Your name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. You live in 221b, Bakers Street, London, England. It's 2017. You are a detective.

You are in love with Dr. John Hamish Watson. You always have been. You always will.

But, most importantly, you are allowed to. With all your heart, you are allowed to knock down the façade you wore for too long. 122 years, in fact. The weight of hiding is lifted off of your shoulders, and, as John takes your hand and presses a kiss to your cheek, you feel infinitely lighter. You are not cold, or stoic, or unfeeling, or emotionless. You are loved.

And as you sit back and relish in the warm feeling of pure love, you catch your eye in the reflection of your mirror. The man who looks back at you looks old, 122 years old, but, holding the hand of John Watson, he smiles at you.

_The true story is told. The hiding is over._

You hum contently and smile back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it should have been this way. hopefully this allows you all to pretend it did.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know if you want the alternate happy ending. it's not as painful as this, but it does make you think about how great this all could have been if they had just done it differently.


End file.
